What is Left to be Saved
by Trust in Misanthropy
Summary: Drabble. During and post Heart. Dean is going to save his little brother. Always.


Yeah...Hello. Um, so I wrote this during class the morning after watching the episode "Heart", which for some reason really touched me. I think it was both the brothers' reactions at the end. Really powerful. Its crap (and I'm not just trying to get sympathy reviews; to me, its CRAP) but I'm too lazy to send it to people who want to read it and so here it is. I hope you just breeze through it, its not too long. I really love the brothers in this shower, but really in a brotherly sort of way. Wincest hasn't won me over. So yeah, I humbly ask you to accept this meagre drabble. Please don't salt it and burn it.

Disclaimer: Supernatural and all related characters and ideas belong to Eric Kripke and The CW and not me, blah blah blah. I'm just borrowing.

Dean felt responsible. Well, okay, perhaps it was unnecessary to say that, because he _always_ felt responsible for Sammy, but this was a little different than usual. Sam's earnest ideals had convinced Dean – against his will –that there was a way to cure lycanthropy. Those kicked puppy eyes got him every time. He was so desperate to save Madison, so heartbreakingly desperate that Dean allowed himself to be caught up in Sam's faith and hope.

He had recognized the attraction between the two of them, had pushed for it as hard as he could. Not just so Sam could finally get some action, but so Sam could really try to move on again. He knew that Sam had convinced himself that he was bad luck for anyone he loved, the sentiment only increased as of late because of Dad's goddamned message. That man…

When Sam had showed up at the motel door, frantic, Dean had intuitively known that:

Sam had slept with her, and

he had sincerely liked her for more than her looks.

For his little brother's sake, he had gently tried to let him know they had no alternatives. Sam's denial had been painful to watch. He was too invested in their job, lives seeming so much more valuable now that Dad was gone.

But he hadn't expected Madison to ask Sam to kill her.

To "help her".

To "save her".

God, could she have chosen worse way to say that?

The moment it happened, Dean wished he had never encouraged their attraction. His brother was going to endure another tragedy, and Dean should have stopped it. When Sam walked away, he followed out of a driving desire to _save Sammy._ He could see his fragile brother was close to breaking; that he was trying to hold himself together when there was nothing left to bind. Dean wanted to take away this burden, to cover Sam's eyes and shelter him from the pain. He saw Sam appear to collect himself amidst the tears, to assume the responsibility that was far beyond him. For a moment, Dean thought that perhaps his brother could recover, his heart could be salvaged, that he could avoid the mistake Dean had made so carelessly. Then, Sammy looked at him.

Dean knew he would never again see that kind of wordless, destructive, pure, tortured _agony._ Sam's tear-stained face was completely open, and Dean knew the true depth of this pain, a pain that went far deeper than the issue with Madison. Dean felt his own bitter heart breaking.

He wanted to hold on to the gun, to push Sammy away and do it himself.

This was so goddamned unfair.

As Sam walked out of the room, he felt so utterly helpless, like maybe he _couldn't_ save his younger brother, despite his bravado. Unbidden, a tear rolled down his cheek.

The crack of a gunshot startled him out of his thoughts. Slightly surprised, he blinked rapidly and wiped his eyes. He needed to go to Sam. That was the only thought left: an overpowering urge to be with his brother. He didn't know what type of person he would find – broken or whole –and it scared him. Forcing his body into motion, he steadily moved towards the living room.

Sam was gently laying Madison's body on the couch, arranging her in a comfortable position, one Dean could tell he wished he could have done for Jessica. His arms were shaking as he placed her arms across her chest, and his mouth was firmly shut, holding back a sob.

Dean had to bite back a sob of his own.

They couldn't linger, the gunshot would attract attention and he couldn't allow Sam the time her needed to collect himself.

Clearing his throat to let Sam know of his presence, Dean strode towards his brother's bent form and gripped his shoulders, offering support. Sam straightened mechanically, turned to face his brother and nodded. Dean picked the gun up from the floor, where he assumed it had fallen from his brother's nerveless fingers. Sam obediently followed him to the door, and walked out without looking back. Dean steered them out the front door and into the Impala. Sam, still generally non-responsive, opened the door, slid in and pulled on the seat belt. He was silent, and Dean wasn't going to make him talk.

The drive was short, but the silence heavy. Dean stowed the gun in the trunk as Sam leaned against the passenger's door, staring blankly at the parking lot, eyes still glazed with tears. As Dean led him to their room, Sam seemed to come back to himself, and when Dean unlocked and swung the door open, he moved. Sam pushed past his brother and ran into the bathroom. Seconds later, Dean heard him retching into the toilet, crying with every heave.

Dean felt an impotent rage grow inside him: irrational rage at himself, at Sam, at Madison, at Dad and at the goddamned son-of-a-bitch Yellow Eyed Demon. He contained his anger, though. It would do no good to lash out at the only person who needed him irrevocably.

The scene in the bathroom was much like the incident at the hotel in Connecticut, but with far less humor. Dean slowly knelt next to his brother, and reached out a gentle hand to run his back. He didn't expect Sam to turn and throw himself at Dean, but he didn't –couldn't –push him away.

He could smell the vomit, he could feel Sam's tears soak into his shirt, feel the quivering in his brother's back. Leaning against the wall behind him, he held Sam and allowed him to break down. He wanted to heal his brother, to stop the tears and make him forget everything, but all he could do was offer him the company of someone who would always be there to look after him, someone who would always love him.

God, why couldn't he do anything to help Sammy?

Dean knew his brother, knew that whatever guilt Sammy's mind was pouring on him was far worse than any form of torture a demon could come up with. Christ, Sammy needed to be saved from himself now. He banged the crown of his head against the wall as he looked up at the peeling motel bathroom ceiling. He could fell Sam's shaking abate, but he felt his brother's arms holding him tighter. He felt Sam shift, felt his head rise. He looked down at his little brother, and they spent a moment studying each other. Sam attempted a weak smile, and whispered, "I know, Dean. Thanks."

Dean offered a small grin and squeeze in return, acknowledging the truth of what Sam had seen in his eyes: the wish to shield Sam from their world, and the fact that he would give his last breath to save him. Sam let his head drop back to Dean's chest and inhaled deeply, calming himself. He let his body relax and allowed Dean to care for him, to _save_ him, even from himself.


End file.
